


This is the Sun

by BelowBedlam



Series: Above All Shadows [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Elves, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Requited Love, Romance, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-03-20 17:00:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3658170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelowBedlam/pseuds/BelowBedlam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sundered from her homeland and on the tremulous search for her father’s house, Anordis does not know if any hope she harbors is enough to keep her. Her determination endears her to the largely undaunted Elvenking, into whose care she is thrust, and their tentative dance around each other reveals to them what it’s meant for the other to endure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and critique are love and light.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

Anordis only remembers swinging her sword for what felt like an eternity, killing orcs so  _different_  from the ones in the south, alongside Dwarves, Men, and Elven soldiers who hadn’t the time to regard her as anything but ally. And then she remembers darkness. When she opens her eyes the battle is over and her head is _killing her_ and twilight warms the sky in rose tones, tentative at first in its declaration: Blood has been spilled this night. Except that it hadn’t, it was spilt in the daylight, for hours, beneath the shadow of the Mountain for reasons she only just grasped before being sucked into a war she had no stake in. She was only passing through.

Her luck is shoddy as best; first a dragon (a  _dragon_ ) and now this. But she is enough pain to know she is very much alive, and as such she must press on: West and more west, until she can say the name “Calaeron” and be met with more than vacant stares.

She hadn’t seen the Grey One during the battle but she sees him now, his haggard gate and ridiculous tall hat all she's ever needed to know that it was indeed him. She starts with hope and an older, darker reflex.  _Of course you would be here…_  They call him many things here in the West, like Tharkûn. Mithrandir. Gandalf. She does not particularly like any of these.

Anordis doesn't think twice before she calls after him, hoarsely: “ _Olórin.”_

At his name he stops, turning slowly to where Anordis lay prone amongst the dead. From the ground he’s very tall, even without the crooked point of his hat reaching for the early morning sun. Her sight comes back blurred at first, but she could spot Olórin and his Staff full-blind; the jewels she and her sister wear in their noses were given them by this Gandalf, chipped from the peak of his “walking stick.”

 _{For wisdom, and protection_ , He’d said in stunted Kilmasi as he presented their mother with the jewels. Anordis and her sister, Olerydeth, weren’t yet fifty, gangly and thin without braids in their hair, no black markings to adorn them. They stood with their father, grasping his hands.}

Remembering makes her dizzier, eyes rolling in her head as Gandalf lowers to one knee. His gaze is just as soft and overcast as the sky yet she feels skewered by it, searched unceremoniously to the tune of his haphazard mumbling. Her hearing was returned with mornings’ first light, but it had brought ghosts with it; intermittently she hears the echoing sound of a dwarvish horn, warped and far way, though the battle is long over. Hands lift her by the shoulders until she’s propped up against Gandalf’s raised knee, head lolling on his thigh. Sharp, deep pains run through her and she bites back her groans. Gandalf passes his fingers over her brow. He smells of smoke and after-rain and blood. He seems confused– it makes her stomach burn.  _But you know me, godling._

“Maatrys,” He says finally with a flicker of smile. “You are Maatrys, for you are the amber- eyed, and your _sister_  the gray.” She tries not to flinch at her mother-name rolled wearily off the tongue of a god-in-disguise, but he sees it and sighs. “Did Nonat follow you here?” Silence. “And your mother, is she—“

“You know what’s happened to the South,  _duphit.”_ She spits. She will not speak of it with him, not here amidst more death, after battle, after a  _victory_  partially, no doubt, of his design. Why would he ask in such a place? Her throat burns from the force of her curse and she cannot say all this, but he knows. 

Something dark skitters across his face yet he swallows it back and when he talks again, his voice is gentle and kind in Kilmasi—Yes, I know,  _ka-kitri. S_ he knows that it’s meant to soothe her but it only makes her angrier, insides burning with a terrible heat, and she’s all too aware thatshe’s begun to cry on the wizard’s lap, cursing his soft voice, the rank smell of dead flesh, the burning of her ankle partway between twisted and broken. And then the grey Wizard lifts her with him as he stands, clicking his tongue when she screams at her wounds disturbed. She tells herself she’d fight him if she only had the strength. She tells herself she shouldn’t have called him. She tells  _him_  she shouldn’t have called him, but his response is drowned out by the echoes of a dwarvish horn in her ear, his mouth obscured by the growing black on the edges of her vision. Suddenly she sees stars in the morning sky, and watches the black eat them. Panic labors her breath and she tries to squirm out of the Wizard’s iron grip as it seizes her. Gandalf only holds her tighter.

“I will find you a place to heal, but you must breathe,  _ka-kitri,”_  He says calmly, and somehow she hears this clear as day. “You must breathe.”

She does: long, grasping breaths of stale battleground stench, gulping at the fresh of passing breezes until fury of her heartbeat subsides. As Gandalf walks on the dark retreats, almost begrudgingly she thinks, and the horns fade away with her panic. In their place she hears the clinking of good metal, the syrupy cadence of Sindarin, and multiple “Mithrandir’s” as they pass. One voice, far too base to lilt the way it did, is the loudest, and she turns her aching head to it. His hair is as pales as his skin and moonlit, laid over his shoulders like cornsilk and adorned at the crown by a silver diadem. She knows his face immediately: He is the king that brought the Lake Town survivors aid before the battle (she’d eaten from that aid). Thranduil, king of Mirkwood: He is at once more and less than whom she’d seen then. His eyes are blue and hard to a fault under dark brows, and she senses something old and disturbing about his countenance. It’s his posture, she realizes; before he’d been tall, light, statuesque. Now he fought to keep himself regal, but the look he bestows upon her is no less than kingly. She stares back. Gandalf clears his throat.

“Lord Thranduil, this is a princess of the South. She will not like you to call her Maatrys; in Sindarin, she is Anordis. You will find her a kindred spirit inasmuch as she despises me even more than you do, but I owe her a great deal. I’d be in your debt too, if you kept her until she was well.”

Anordis frowns. Thranduil merely tilts his head to the side.

Around them, elves in golden armor cast her furtive glances as they walk past. Wandering for so long in the west has made her used to this; she knows the rumors and dark tales spun about her homeland, about the brown folk of the south and how they did not fall to the Dark Ones but joined them with glee. How could she blame them for believing it if no one had ever told them otherwise?

“I believed the Far Kin to have sailed long ago.” Thranduil says flatly, his gaze sliding back to her, brow furrowed in confusion…and the remnants of something else. “At  _your_  behest, Mithrandir.”

“Some remained.” The wizard says simply, glancing at her. Anordis is at first silent, partly for her throat’s sake, and mainly because she cannot protest this handing off. It seems that it is either in the company of these pale elves or in the ruins of Dale that she will heal.

Olórin had always thought on his feet.

“I’d appreciate it,” she whispers, and feels a light squeeze on her shoulder, “Very much.” It is hard to read this king. She does not know what exactly he expects to find by watching her so intently as she is covered in grime, her eyes red and swollen. Perhaps he stares to make sure Gandalf is not mad and that she  _is_  elvish and not some well-spoken orc. Then something in Thranduil softens. He takes a step forward.

“You are kin, lady, and I have lost many kin this day–”

“Splendid!” With a jerk, Gandalf pushes her into Thranduil’s arms. The Elvenking’s mouth presses into a thin line but he adjusts her gently when she cries out as her ankle is, again, jolted, and the pain subsides a little. Gandalf feigns pleasure; Anordis knows because it reaches everywhere but his old eyes. “With this sort of luck I will meet you again soon, Maatrys. Thranduil—“

“By Eru, you will leave me be for a thousand years.”

“With your son off North, I find that highly unlikely.” At this Thranduil tenses, his jaw flexing. Quickly the wizard makes the signs of farewell to them; once in the Westron way and once in the Southron. “Now, I must find my burglar and bring him home. He is another one whom I’ve brought…more than they bargained for. And to him I must make amends while they are still to be made.” Fingers flex around his staff once, and again as he gives her another meaningful look. Anordis does not hear a “forgive me” in his voice, nor does she see it in his face, as much as a “let me fix it”. He could not fix the South, but he would try to help her. And if he could still save this “burglar”… she inclines her head to him.  _You will always make messes of people, won’t you?_

“Olórin.” The Wizard smiles.

“How lucky I feel,” He says as he backs away, “To have someone who knows my name.”

And then he is once again a tall, gray figure with its back to her, shrinking as the distance between them grows. As quickly as she’d felt him, seen the red jeweled glint of his staff, he was gone again like a ghost as her mother would say, though she’d meant it as an endearment while Anordis slung it at him, cursing. She expected she would always carry a bit of hate for the Wizard in her heart, even as he went about his business of trying to fix things.

Thranduil watched her still, closer now that he has her so near. He is big, commanding; unlike with Gandalf she feels small and ineffectual in his hold and she looks away.

“Mithrandir is indebted to you.” He says as he begins walking, and Anordis tightens her arms around his neck.

“And now, to you.” The king smells faintly of mint, mostly of steel. She looks over his shoulder. Behind him is the dead battlefield, outlining the Lonely Mountain in gore. She’s always wondered how many storms it took to wash away so much blood, to blow those war-torn ghosts into the Sundering Seas where they could float away in peace.  She sighs. Elves were never lost, but Dwarves, Men? And still they met Death bravely, swords raised.

“We will have you cleaned and your ankle secured. If you are not fit to walk on it, you are not fit to ride alone. You will ride with me.”

“I can burden another rider—“

“You will burden me, as it was I who agreed you keep you.” His voice is hard, but not yet angry.

 _“Ben iest gîn.”_ She will not argue with he who could so easily drop her. The dizzy feeling returns in waves and she breathes slowly. It will be a long ride to the forests. “Thank you, for…”

“I too once found myself far from home, but I had my father, my kin. You seem to be alone, princess of the South.” He sits her on an overturned barrel, mindful of her ankle. She sways a little before finding her balance.  _I am not alone_ , is the mantra she’d lived on for so long. But she looks around her and feels the truth of her situation fall on her like stones. Whose air, land, and languages had she adopted? Whose enemies, or war?  _Even if_ …she will not think it lest she break even further in front of this king.  _They are alive._   _My sister is alive_.

But they are not with her now. Anordis sighs long and heavy, biting back tears as she raises her chin to Thranduil.

“I am.”

Thranduil says nothing else, only nods—to himself, it seems—before calling for some of the female elves congregated not far from them. The dialect he uses is only the shell of Sindarin, or so she can tell, but they look her way and dip curtsies to the king before making their way over.

“They will tend to you until I return.” And then he, too is gone, and Anordis is inundated with greetings first in the strange dialect, then in Sindarin when they see she doesn’t understand. Their flitting hands soon get to work, and while she notes the lingering of their fingers on her skin, petting it like a rare pelt, she sits still. They are oddly comforting. _It is because they are kin, julla, that is why._ She looks into the copper-haired, elven faces, smiles when they smile at her.

 “Tell me of Mirkwood,” she says.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feed me comments critique whateverrrr.
> 
> Glossary:
> 
> Duphit—Kilmasi for “ghost.”
> 
> Ka-kitri—Kilmasi for “little ruler”
> 
> Ben iest gîn—Sindarin for “As you wish.”
> 
> Julla– Kilmasi for “silly”


	2. Chapter 2

When Anordis and her sister were 40 their mother first brought them into the far forests, to the No Man’s Land between Kilmasa and the Haradi Empire proper. Here was where the giant elephants called Mumakil came to mate and where, if one was lucky, they could spot a young giant try its hand at planting trees. Their mother had them dress as she did in what appeared to simply be scraps of black cloth and bid them keep quiet as they watched Mumakil return after the rains to give birth. She taught them how to move as they helped baby giants acclimates their clumsy hands to seed and soil. When the girls did poorly, as they did in those first few trips, she’d kiss them on the cheeks and have them try again. Once the Mumakil began bowing to them and the giants searched for them in the trees she’d smile her white smile, golden eyes gleaming.

  _Fey itnim, gayasit,_ she’d say. _Very good, girls_. Inside the Kilmasa palace walls their mother-- Akilat, daughter of Iphtiri, daughter of Neftera-- switched freely between Kilmasi, Sindarin, and Haradi; sometimes when she’d just woken up she spoke a language that she called Quenya, until she realized where she was and chose something more suitable. When their father was around, she’d speak to him in Sindarin and he’d respond in Kilmasi until one of them stumbled over a word and the other laughed. To her daughters she taught all three languages, but spoke those oft-heard praise and love-words to them in the trill of Kilmasi.

Anordis has learned Westron on the fly. She doesn’t like it much; their word for “forest” is jilty and stale and does no justice to their trees, especially in Mirkwood. Though it looks comparatively tame to her jungles back home, it is deep and vast and  _green_ , even in the night. She still thinks her mother would be able to traverse it end to end in a matter of days if she felt robust, but then, her mother was called Forest Tamer for a thousand years before Anordis was born.

Thranduil and his host have followed a beautiful, clear river through the length of the forest before coming upon his palace as the moon rose. When she realizes what she sees, Anordis gasps.

It is starlight.

The entrance to Mirkwood’s palace is lit by the constellations. It is  _lit_ ; Anordis follows one pillar up into the sky until she couldn’t tell what was pillar and what was not. She figures the place must make creative use of the night as it is a cave, this palace; from her seat she could see how the elves have carved into it to make it feel more open and less like a fortress, a work of art if she’d ever seen one.

“ _Fey itnim_ ,” she says, turning to the king and nodding. He blinks.

“You might translate.” Thranduil says, loosening his arm from her cloaked waist as she sits forward. She pauses, confused until she realizes. Right.  _No longer Dreaming._

“Beautiful,” she relays in Sindarin, because their “very good,” is not good enough, and she can almost feel him nod in approval. Between the king’s seeming penchant for regal quiet and Anordis letting herself fade in and out of a Dreaming state, the way had been quiet. Now that they are here, however, she is itching to stand on her feet, trusting that with the amount of poultice and chanting they’d done over her ankle she would surely be able to walk a bit. Anyway, that isn’t the wound she most worries about, not by far; the road has been weary and she can feel the crumble of erosion in her skin, under her skin.

Olórin had known. She supposes it isn’t so hard to guess, with leagues and kingdoms between her and hers, that she suffers more than the aftershock of someone else’s war. Though,  _that_  surprise hadn’t exactly helped.

Thanduil helps her down after he dismounts; so near his palace he, too, glows. It was the insistence of  _pale_  wherever his silver armor waned; cornsilk hair and ice blue eyes on porcelain skin. A group of well-dressed elves emerge from the palace with the same glowing faces, so much different than the soldiers or even the healers they’d brought to battle. They were serene, white-faced ghosts, which the Elves did not have. Still, Anordis had seen more than a few Men in faded array, long dead and still walking with no solid bodies to speak of, to make the connection. 

 _These are the kin of my father,_ She chastises herself.

Thranduil lets these elves make their greetings before beckoning one to come nearer.

“This is Cilion.” The blonde elf nods. “He’ll take you to the healing quarters, and then to where you’ll be staying.”

“I can’t thank you enough.” She can’t yet manage a smile, but curtseys deeply. He remains straight, hands clasped behind his back, ethereal and distant.

“I do not require it, my lady. Only replenish yourself.” And he looked at her as he did earlier in the day, searching for something though this time, she felt he found it.

Anordis knew that this King knew, that any elf worth their years knew, she was diminished: It was telltale in her extended Dreaming, in the slow healing of her body. The life of the Eldar was not leaving her by any means, but with her ancestry and her...journey, it was easier for her to weaken. So when she sees a familiar shape skirt the outer walls of this palace from the corner of her eye, she expects nothing concrete when she turns to it: she must only be recalling mirages, simply dreaming awake. But when this king looks in the same direction, his still face growing grim, it chills her long after Cilion leads her away and Thranduil disappears from view.

So. The Fair Kin had them, too. She wonders if Olórin had known  _that_.

…

“A grandchild of the Dark Lady is in our midst and  _you didn’t honor her_? How have I taught you?” The height of Thranduil’s throne does nothing to deter the Elder; She is nearly as old as Cirdan and particularly cantankerous for an Elf. She stands tall and beautiful, looking up at him defiantly, hands on her hips. Thranduil sips from his goblet, one leg draped over the other. It is not that he is nonchalant; he only wishes to seem so in order for the Elder to  _go away._

“Mithrandir simply said she was a princess of the South. A very vague and awkward moniker, I think.”

“And my lord failed to ask of which part--”

“I was preoccupied with  _post-war_ , Elder.” He does not care if she were the daughter of all the Valar at once: his son, he only wants to drink on his throne and think about his son.

“Obstinate!” She mutters. “Even so wise as you are, still obstinate. You must honor her,” She says seriously. “She is likely all that is left of a most resplendent kingdom. In fact, I will go to her. Eru only knows when last she heard her own tongue.” Thranduil resists the urge to groan, as it will only goad her on.

“I have bid her rest. She is  _diminished_.” 

“All the more reason to—where is Legolas?” Her blush robes swish as she turns to her left, then her right. Thranduil’s frown deepens. “My lord?” He is silent. “Thranduil.” The pulling at his heart starts again, duller than when he searched for his son among the dead,  than when he’d mentioned his wife.  _Your mother loved you._  The left side of his face grows warm but the glamour holds, and he takes a drink.

“He did not wish to return, so I sent him after the Dunedain.” Too simple; The Elder’s face, for once, looks troubled.

“Oh, little one,” she says softly. Thranduil cannot tell if she means him or his son. He waves his hand at her, dismissing it.

“It will do him good.” This gives her pause, but only for a second.

“Indeed.” Then she bows deeply, a strained smile stretching the fine lines of her face. “I’ll go see about our ‘princess of the South.’ Mithrandir is something, isn’t he?”

“Thank you, Elder.”

When she is gone he places both feet firmly on the ground, and sighs. His glass is empty, so he refills it.

Its not long before he misses the Elder’s nagging, and too long before he rises from his throne to retreat to his chambers, flush with much wine. There, he trails a leaden finger over lines in a book he’s read a million times but cannot remember now. His chambers are quiet, but rooms have never suited him for long; soon he’s back out in the halls, walking a stately line with his hands behind his back. He walked everywhere this way, even when Legolas was just a child and tried to imitate him.The threatening swagger he’d developed since then reminded Thranduil of himself in his first millenium. And when he’d walked away from him in the shadow of the mountain--

_He will be back. It is better this way._

 Mirkwood’s healing quarters were built where they would have the most light, even at night, and where the breezes rolled in heavy and cool. Here it smells of lavender and athelas; Thranduil remembers how he reeked of it after coming back from slaying dragons. It was a comfort.

Their voices are low but unmistakable because their words are foreign, the Elder’s voice soaring high over Anordis’ low tones. It isn’t eavesdropping if one can’t understand, so Thranduil moves closer, listening. Rapid, hard syllables make it a jilting kind of poetry.

Then, she laughs.

It is full and straight from the belly, controlled in its happiness and and yet the prettiest thing he’d heard in ages. He doesn’t know how she can manage it, diminished as she is. It is a wonder to hear. He wishes he could imagine her smile to go along with it, but he only sees in his mind’s eye her tired face, its strong lines and warm brown skin, the thin black markings on the bridge of her nose, her cheeks. The determined set of her jaw and the wide, appreciative golden eyes turning on him as she complimented his kingdom. But no smile.

Eventually the laughter dies down, and Thranduil forces himself onward. He is still fairly drunk. He might walk the halls until sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to wrangle a few things into this. Let me know how you think it went!


	3. Chapter 3

Anordis is well aware that the king has set watchers on her and is somewhat pleased. He’d be a poor king to let a stranger—even one vouched for by Olorin—freely roam his kingdom. She lets them believe her unaware for appearance’s sake, figuring they need at least that for some fun tension as it has to be a boring job to watch her.

Her first full day in Mirkwood is largely uneventful. She walks around near the healing quarters and bathes a few times more to rid herself of the feel of war. She sings to herself in Kilmasi for a while, then in Sindarin when a few soldiers pass through. She doesn’t speak much.

Her second day is almost as tepid. She counts eyes, mostly.

It does not take long for word of the “strange kin” to spread; Anordis walks farther out into the halls in a yellow shawl that the kind lady— Faervel, the Elder—gives her, settling it over the loose cloud of her hair. It’s so long it may as well be a cape and it does enough to shield her from all the stares. She makes the point of meeting each pair of bewildered eyes with a stare somewhere in-between tacit and steely before turning away _._ She will not falter, and she cannot accommodate. Let them say she is cold, and let them come to her face and say the words. She meets each pair of eyes long enough to count them, and then looks away.

Healing physically takes her a little more time than usual; her ankle is all but back to normal but her head is still out of whack. It hurts in the back, and she can’t remember the battle itself save for grainy blips of image and the sound of dwarvish horns. She blames the West for her weakened state but she knows it isn’t fair. She blames the king of Rhun and knows that while he deserves it, it is not true. She’d blame herself if she had the courage. Instead she dances around the issue like a frightened deer, rubbing the back of her head and wincing.

After counting eyes renders her angry enough to blacken them, she returns to the healing quarters. She likes it there because it’s open and filled with light; the last thing she wants right now is to feel caged, so when Faervel invites her to sleep in her chambers (“so wieldy we will not notice each other”) she stalls for another day. Cilion the king’s man has come no less than three times to take her to the rooms she’s been given, and three times she’s turned him away with some thin excuse. _I feel faint._ In the night she sees the dark figure again when it scrambles across a lit wall. For such a large palace it is a relatively small amalgamation, keeping largely to the shadows, so she notes its presence and continues on, relatively peaceful.

Her third day begins with fingers in her hair and a surge of hot irritation. 

She’s barely out of her Dreaming before she's flicking her hand out to catch the perpetrator by the wrist, rolling her eyes up to glare at a white-faced healer. Both are quiet, neither breaking gaze, for a solid minute before Anordis lets the wrist go. Quickly the healer snatches her hand away and takes a step back. Embarrassment renders her face very young. 

Looking, Anordis can tolerate. Touching, Anordis tolerates when necessary (and it had, in instances been necessary). This was not that. 

“Did you expect it to eat those twig fingers of yours?” She sits up. “Would you like if this stranger touched you so?”

“Do forgive me—“

“The battle your soldiers have returned from,” she raises her voice so that the other healers, pretending unsuccessfully to be engrossed in their work, can hear, “I fought there, too. On accident.  And _I_ didn’t have such protective armor.” 

The healer is red now, beseeching her with open hands. “Please, my lady. “ Her sisters look over from their workspaces but do not rise. Anordis has a feeling they are older and less frightened by words but if she went any further, they might yet rise in defense of their sister. The offending girl looks genuinely frightened, to Anordis’ liking, so she gives one last pointed glare at the healer from the bed before beckoning her back over. The girl doesn’t move an inch. _Smart child_. Anordis holds a hand out to the flinching thing.

“Please come. Come here. I would not harm my hosts no matter how annoyed.” She forces a smile as the healer timidly returns to her bedside. “Look.” She unwinds her hair from the bun she wears after washing and it falls about her in a damp cloud. “It is just hair. I am just an elf. The same way your locks come in different shades of reds and yellows, mine likes to curl.”  

“And…and your markings? Your jewel?” Anordis raises an eyebrow. If only she’d started with questions and not groping hands.

“The jewel is a gift from a family friend.” She taps the line on her chin. “My lineage,” she pokes both cheeks where the black dots sit, “My station.” The arm band is visible under short sleeves but her stomach band is not, so she raises her tunic under her breasts. “The arm denotes that I’ve won battles. The stomach is just for fun.” There is another she cannot show them—will not. By now the other healers have dropped their poor facades and come over to Anordis’ bedside, smiling hesitantly and dipping their heads at her.

“During celebrations we draw sigils onto ourselves, " One offers, "They remain for as long as we let them.” She slides down the sleeve of her dress to show a shimmering symbol on her shoulder.

“And what is it for?”

“Heritage. Soon there will be a grand party for the returning of our Heritage Jewels.” She smiles. “I like to wear them for their aesthetic. Under the moonlight I feel like another star.” 

“I’d like to feel that way,” Anordis admits, and the young, offending elf brightens.

“I would draw them for you if you wish.” It is an offer of forgiveness and wonder and Anordis decides she might not yet like the child, but she could come to like her persistence.

Before she can ask after their names, they all turn as one and bow. Beyond them, their king stands in the doorway in elegant robes. He’s without his diadem so his hair falls flatteringly around his face, all angles and blue eyes: handsome, if a bit cold. Anordis nods reverently. 

“Lady Anordis, I was told you've preferred the healer's beds these last few nights," He says in the way of greeting."Have you eaten yet today?” His robes are metal-gray with blue lining, shining in its silver embroidered leaves. She shakes her head.

“Good. Come.” It is soft but clearly a command. She doesn’t bother with boots as the floor is uneven and to her liking.  Perhaps she’ll look silly walking next to such a splendid figure, but the eyes will watch her regardless. “The Elder thinks I’ve done you a disservice.” He says, gently taking the Elder’s cloak she's grabbed from the end of her bed, and shaking it out so she can slide into it. His eyes linger over her tresses as she situates them over the robe before he looks away, though his face is solemn as ever. A compliment, she wagers, and takes his offered arm. 

“Why? Taking me in does me no disservice.” 

“I was particularly chastised about not honoring the issue of one Dark Lady. You are a bit more legendary than you let on.” He inclines his head to her as she raises her chin.

“Well it’s no legend in the West, is it? Here, I am one of none. No one need call me _ka_ in this place. Princess,” she adds when he raises an eyebrow, “Essentially.” But Thranduil doesn’t seem convinced, so she goes on. “Your Elder Faervel is kind and very old; in my grandmother’s day there was much more protocol.”

“And yet the Elder was adamant…I will not impose upon you that which you do not wish. But you are my guest and of royal blood, Lady Anordis. You must not hesitate to request.”

They walk the uneven path into a more open hall showered with light; to the left is the entrance to a glowing garden. Along the way, elves greet Thranduil with a “my king,” and a bow as they glide past. It’s almost as though they sense him before they see him—the healers before had all turned before Anordis noticed him—in the sort of way people had just _known_ her mother was on her way. She and her sister had been gone so much they hadn’t gained that much synchronicity but if they’d had… time… she was sure whichever of them lost the bet that set the crown on their head would grow into the same hyper-sense.

“Do you think you would miss it?” She asks suddenly, and the startled look on his face makes his eyes impeccably bright. Pretty. She squeezes his forearm gently, emboldened. They stop before the garden entrance, framed by the auburn-gold gradient of fall leaves. “Eru forbid you found yourself without your kingdom, but consider: In a strange land with odd food and a prickly-feeling language on your tongue. No one knows that silver head of yours once held a crown. They expect you to pay for your stew same as anyone. Would you miss it? My king.” She slips her hand from his hold to dip into a low curtsey. “Your highness. _Ka-sher_.”

“Do you?” She straightens herself, sees the control returned to his face, and falters. He holds his mouth so that it suggests he won’t be answering her, even if she asks again, so she shrugs.

“It’s funny. I didn’t like ruling but I liked the respect. My sister and I joint-ruled for some time after my mother was unable.”

“A twin?” Anordis nods.

“Olerydeth.”

“Sindarin names for Southron elves.”

“Well my father was Sindar, my lord and my mother-name doesn't belong here among strangers. I mean no offense,” she says, once again meeting the eyes around her as the pass by, “But it’s true.”

“I assumed as much when Mithrandir introduced you twice. I like it, your language.” She smiles at the compliment, looking directly at him. He hesitates, and then lightly smiles back, and she can’t tell if she likes his face serious or with this little fissure in that mask.

Then it doesn't matter, because the black, skittering shadow she’d seen before peels itself from the walls. It is darkness and thin limbs, climbing like a fledgling spider about the hedges and bushes that border the garden, coming toward them. She blinks, tensing. _That’s not normal._ When it settles on the king’s shoulder like a pet bird, she takes a step back. _That_ hadn't happened in a thousand years. Thranduil narrows his eyes.

“Lady Anordis.”

“I see…” But she can't see clearly, not really; the skill is a learned thing left unused for too long. She focuses on the spitfire feeling in her belly, raising an authoritative hand when Thranduil makes to move. He stands still, seemingly shocked at himself for doing so. _Focus…_ And then the darkness grew darker, sucking the light from the sky and Thranduil’s person, and the left side of his face began changing. Less skin, webbed from an old, terrible burn, an eye gone white. She could see his teeth through the torn cheek, and grimaced. _Poor thing._ Thranduil watches her with confusion, and she sighs up into the sky before deciding yes, she would tell him. The alternative lie would be too shallow. And if this was what she knew it to be he should want to know, even if he didn't want her help.

“And we were beginning to get along…King Thranduil. You’ll either want me to stay or send me away. There is a, a darkness about you. It sits there.” She points to his left shoulder but he does not turn. “It’s so old--how long have you been so overrun? You don’t need to answer. I can see your scar, my lord, as well. Something dark ails you.” His hand settles on the hilt of his sword and she has to stop herself from crouching into an attack position. _He’s only afraid._ But if she does not give him the choice, she would have to make it herself. And she would simply leave.

He does not draw his sword. Instead he gives her a withering look before walking away, back in the direction they’d come from.

Her watchers must have been quieter than usual, because it’s a surprise when they—four of them—appear out of seemingly nowhere. _Their_ swords are drawn. Her stomach rumbles and she chuckles, raising her hands in surrender.

“You’re in good company today friends, for my head still pains me.” Still she hisses viciously when they jerk her arms behind her back. “Do not try me, in any case."

The eyes are on her as she’s led towards what she assumes are their dungeons. She looks straight ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I fibbed about not...changing...the course of the story? It'll be a lot more interesting. Promise.
> 
> Let me know what you think! Comments are how I live and breathe. Basically.


	4. Chapter 4

“Who are you?”

Anordis swore a long time ago to never be imprisoned again but finds herself humoring Thranduil. She let the guards lead her into a cell and slide the barred door closed, locking it with a click she’d memorized long before them, and hated it.  Slowly she observed, taking in the uneven stone walls and the bare slab on which she would sleep. Then she looked out at the guards watching her curiously, their faces still boasting such youth. It made her remember the bliss of her first millennia and she hoped they were cherishing it, but for appearance’s sake she sidled up to the bars and cast them a dark glance over her tattooed shoulder. _This is nice_ , she’d said, and they balked at her _, In Rhun the dungeons are not only bereft of windows, they barely have floors._ Inside she was screaming. Inside she shook the bars of her cage with a fury none of these elflings should ever hope to see. Inside they’re all dead and she’s free, running, running.

Now she stands in what looks to be a large, elaborate study lit with crystals and lined with tomes. Faervel had come for her, bathed her, coaxed her from her Dreaming—both defiant and necessary—with soft little homeland endearments. The Elder had come to speak with her every day of her imprisonment, and while Anordis pretended to be so deep in Dreaming as to not notice, this didn’t stop the woman from talking at her, in any case: _Forgive my errant king. I will speak with him. You will soon be free,_ among other things. It was soothing to hear her own language, to hear that things would be okay in the rich tones of Kilmasi, but she was still in the dungeon. The first few days she coddled her rage and let Faervel’s voice coddle her rage, but the Elder was no king.

Anordis had offended he who _was_ king, not because she knew something he didn’t, but because she knew something she shouldn’t. Which begged the question of how much and how far he knew of the darkness lounging on his shoulder. In the garden the first spark of curiosity bolstered her, but she’s been seven days in a dungeon on his command. He might not know what he’s done, but he’d done it nonetheless.

Now Thranduil stands on the other side of a large, round glass table inlaid with gold, his long hands splayed over its top. No crown adorns his hair but it shines in the crystal light, spilling over his black robes like stardust. He is as pale and grim as she’d hope to see anyone alive, the look on his face regally neutral. He wavers in her sight a bit like a mirage: Anordis has yet to shake off the week-long haze she’d fallen into while waiting in that cell. The fine material she’s dressed in feels strange. Her gaze is a bit unfocused but her hair smells wonderful, like flowers and lemon. The Elder keeps dressing her in yellow, she realizes. The old elf must be taking her name to heart.

_He’d_ asked her who she was.

King Thranduil does not repeat himself, only sours in his countenance the longer she merely looks at him. Behind him the Elder stands, her face expertly blank. Anordis sighs.

“You know my name, king” she says, suppressing a smirk when irritation narrows his eyes. She’s trying not to lash out against being held prisoner for a week. Not trying hard, but trying still; the anger only simmers in her stomach by sheer will alone. Would that she could explode.

“I don’t, actually. I call you as Mithrandir said you’d like, but that is different perhaps than your name. From whence do you hail? What is your lineage? Who _are_ you? I’d like to hear it from your mouth.”

“As you wish.” _Prepare to feel inconsequential,_ she thinks, drawing herself up to full height.“Then I am Anordis daughter of Calaeron, daughter of Akilat, princess of Kilmasa but that is only for you Westerners. In the South I am _Ka_ Maatrys Calaerit Akilata of the line of Iphtiri, heir to the valor of Nanat, The Dark Lady. In the near east I was Shadow. My sister was Storm. I’m sure they still call us _Zilthi_ which means something like “scourge.” As your Mithrandir suggested, you may call me Anordis.” She wants to laugh at the look on his face, so tight and angry and is that _red_ blossoming about his finely pointed ears? But, he’d asked. Thranduil comes around to the front of the table and she sees the black of his robes cut by modest traces of silver. He is beautiful and cold in black, beautiful and cold and wrong.  His Darkness is nowhere to be found.

“The South is gone,” he says nonchalantly, “Kilmasa destroyed. The East descended into darkness.”

“Yes,” She agrees. “All taken, all destroyed. And yet if we were to walk into Harad right now, they’d show me deference. My legacy is ages old.” _My legacy was old before I was born, before you were, too._

“And down to its last scion. One of none, as you said?” She recoils, and something odd flickers across his face. She’d said that in a communal spirit, she’d been trying to placate him. Kings were so temperamental, self-conscious with a crown on their heads. She’d wanted to befriend him. So much for that.  
“So is the next question also going to try and degrade me, or shall we talk about why I’ve been locked away?”

“This is all about that. I seek to know who Mithrandir dropped into my camp that day. I want to know why he moves to meddle now in my affairs.” Now she did laugh.

“You think the Wizard _sent_ me? Oh, no no no, Olorin could no more bid me do anything than I could the Valar. Eru, no.”

“But he has taught you the Sight.” She shakes her head: his cruelty was making a bit more sense, but not enough to stymie her. Couldn’t he have simply asked these things before locking her away?

“This is not “Sight,” though I suppose that comes with it. I can see. And I can act on that sight. I could reach out and touch your little pet, though it would surely bite me.”

“It is not my—“

“Of course not. Just like I am not a tool of your Mithrandir.” She says, waving her hands in irritation. He simply looks at her, jaw working. At first glance it looks as though he might want to strike her but for his expression. He is weighing things out; he is apprehensive. She doesn’t care. Anordis only needs him to understand one thing: No more cells.

The last few days of her confinement were when she began to get angry, when old memories washed over her like insistent waves and she began hallucinating how many ways she could escape this paltry cell without being caught. How many elves she’d have to kill to make that happen.  That was not a place she wanted to return to, not here; she’d had no choice on the battlefield, but here amongst kin she would not be stripped of her humanity.

“My lord,” she tries to soften herself so that the threat she buries under her words doesn’t jump out to bite him, “I’m not going back into that cell. You may question as is your right, and then bid me leave.”

…

The Elder had all but thrown her goblet at his head when she found out. _I clearly have taught you nothing of respect, you insolent thing. The thought! She OUTRANKS you, Thranduil!_ Though how a wandering princess of a fallen kingdom outranked him didn’t make much sense. Until she walked through the doors of his study resplendent in the anger she thought she hid so well. Until she brought him to his figurative knees by simply answering the question of who she was. The Elder had made her glow, but Anordis’ countenance was on par with his as she stood across the room from him. Her face was hard, her eyes golden fire burning him with curses. He knew that leaving her in the dungeons for a week was uncalled for. He knew it. But he left her there anyway, despite the Elder coming to him every single day with her own thinly-veiled curses.

_Why does she frighten you?_

Why indeed? In the garden, something in her eyes had been beyond pitying him. She had been frightened herself at whatever she’d seen on his shoulder. And then, for a moment, the look in her was hungry. That was the only way he could think to describe it, “hungry.” Or ready. He thought for that split second she’d reach into him and pull whatever it was she saw clean out of him.

And now she comes closer to him, unsteady. He can smell the faint sent of wildflower and the cut of lemon as the robes float about her. The Elder’s eyes bore into his back; she has promised to stay silent as long as she can be present. When he’d described Anordis’ “transgression” to the Elder she hesitated for a moment, then shook her head sadly. _That child’s been through more than I know to wield such a Sight._ That put him no closer in figuring out what she was. So now he asks her outright.

“What are you? A witch?” There is a tinkle of laughter so unlike the sunshine he’d heard her sing on her first night. This is hollow and tired.

“No.”

“Would you not say anything to avoid the dungeons?”

“Again, my return to the dungeons is not contingent on anything you say. I simply will not spend another night there. Not even at the command of my savior.”

“If I command it, you will be sent back to the dungeons.” He says despite himself and sees pain, warm and pliant, in her eyes before it hardens into the kind of ice he’s used to seeing in the mirror.

“No.”

“No?” He takes a step forward, menacing though he does not want that look in her eyes to grow. But this is his flaw: dominance. A small voice, smaller even than the urge he has to apologize, pushes him to subdue her. _How dare she threaten? Try and give command?_ It says,though he _knows_ desperation when he hears it and her voice is filmy with it, even she looks like she wants to claw his eyes out.

“I am not a witch,” she says instead.

“Then how do you explain the strange incarnation of your sight?” The look on her face says, _really_? But again she is more diplomatic than he.

“The same way you might explain your glamour: I was taught. And not by the wizard. Listen king, I only meant to be transparent with you. It was a gesture of respect. I didn’t wish to frighten you or show you ill will. Only to be frank with you at least, and help you if you’d wished it.” She shrugs, pressing her full lips together.

“Help me?” She’d said it before. In his anger, he’d almost forgotten it. She nods.

“It was the least I could have done, then.”

“And now?” He leans forward as she takes a step back.

“Some time ago, I swore to never be anyone’s prisoner ever again. And I let you make me break that oath for seven days.” She emphasizes her last words, fingers flexing, shoulders stiff. It begins to dawn on him that he’s done more damage than suspected. “I’ll admit your dungeons are plush in comparison to those in the underbelly of Rhun, and are palaces to the dungeons in its heights; nonetheless it was a prison in which I did _not_ deserve to be.”

“Lady Anordis…“ But now he can almost see the fire rising from her chest, the smoke coming in curls from her nose. This is not the anger of the dwarf, or the wizard, or the Captain. It’s not even the defiance of his son. This is something older, and something all too familiar to him. The beginnings of what might be fear tingle in the small of his back.

“Am I wrong?” She takes a small step forward and the Elder says something to her in Kilmasi. Anordis counters sharply, her eyes trained on Thranduil. He hears the Elder reply in softer tones.

The Elder, subdued.

He has clearly missed something here. Anordis had given him many of her names, and he thinks he knows which one to call her at this moment.

“You are right,” he says in a whisper.

“I am. And I’ll take my leave if you won’t give it to me. So please give it to me, king.” She bows her head; what she says is a threat and yet nothing stirs within him. Her black hair is stark against the pale yellow of her gown; its cut is formless and modest and she still commands power over him. Against the pastel her brown skin shines, nose jewel twinkling. Though she’s bowed to him he can still feel the heat of her gaze, see the smoke. Thranduil barely suppresses a sigh.

“Lady Anordis, you have my permission to leave this place unharmed.” She lifts her head and opens her mouth, but he holds up a hand. They are both surprised that she quiets. “You… are…fierce and resilient and I am sorry for what pain I’ve caused you.” The words tumble from his mouth, “I have shamed my name in treating a princess of older blood than my own thus. Take what you need for your journey and my blessing, whatever that is worth to you.” With that he sits back against the round table.

Her eyes widen a bit, lips parted for words then bitten back. Then she bows to Thranduil and curtseys to the Elder, speaking quickly in Kilmasi. He finds himself yearning for some of the warmth in her voice when she speaks to her. _What is wrong with me?_

Then she is gone.

Thranduil is out the door and after her before the Elder can get words out of her mouth.

…

_Away. Away._

Her façade is failing her, she needs to be out of this damned cave and into the boundless green of the forest before she breaks down. It is all too much; she feels her chest straining against the feral cry she know wants its way out of her mouth—

When he’d asked her if she was a witch she didn’t see Thranduil. She saw someone else. Someone worse.

He _my lady’s_ her down the dark hall but she ignores it, walking as fast as she can without running. She won’t take anything of his but the clothes on her back; forests were always very giving if one knew how to ask. She’d follow the river back out onto the plains and make her way towards the mountains like she’d meant to before. _We don’t trust the Wizard. We stay wary of strangers, even kin._

When his hand catches her arm she whirls around, chest heaving. They stand just outside of the palace doors and the night air kisses her skin.

“You are diminished,” He says after a moment, dumbly.

“Yes! And you put me in a dungeon for seven days!” She all but yells, taking two great steps back. “Because you are frightened of what you think I can…see about you.”

“Do not disappear into the forest.”

“Your forest doesn’t scare me.”

“But my dungeons do.” He steps forward. “My plush dungeons. Why?” She pauses, confusion wrinkling her brow before she laughs incredulously.

“You have already bid me leave. You have _just_ given it to me.”

“Let me make amends.”

“Why would you want to? I was given to you by Olorin and you don’t even like him. And I don’t really like you.”

“You like Faervel. Stay. I promised you safety and I have erred grievously. I have…erred in many things of late. You deserve none of my shortcomings. You are my kin. I at least must do right by you.” He’s heaving, chest straining against his black vest, blue eyes distressed. So different from his usual mask, and even more different from the smile that had broken it in the gardens. She looks about him; if his Darkness is there she doesn’t feel it. Then she looks to the forest. It wavers in her vision, and she brings her fingers to her cheek. Too warm. And wet. _Damn it._

“You don’t know what you did,” She says softly. “I am plagued by nightmares.” His hand is on her shoulder, so she has to look up at him to see his face. Instead, she looks away. They’re silent for a while, and she tries to still her tears unsuccessfully. It was the most irritating trait of hers, this propensity to cry, but what else could she do with so much feeling? One could only swallow it so many times. He eventually draws away from her and when he speaks, his voice is far away.

“I will send the Elder to you. You are welcome to stay as long as you…Don’t leave so rashly in the night, Lady Anordis. Wait for the Elder.”

This forest does not call to her, of course, as it doesn’t know her name, but she watches it almost longingly. It’s been a long time since she’d run through the trees, and now even these strange ones would suit her.

 Leaving would be simple, but she’d only diminish further. She knows.

“Eru guide me. _Aena_ , guide me.” She sighs. The last ten days were a series of shocks to her system; even now she shakes from the reverb. She could find the kind of quiet in the forest that cushioned the ears and swaddled elves and more attendant Men in the soft of the oldest kinds of peace. She could cocoon herself, disappear for a while again, only this time of her own volition. She could. She could.

But she waits for the Elder. She doesn’t have to wait long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, comments are love.
> 
> Glossary:  
> Aena -- Kilmasi for "mother"


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anordis tries to adjust and Thranduil flirts via baby elk.

“Your foot must be pointed and swept behind you. Then _jump_ ,” The healers all jump and transition smoothly into the floor moves as Anordis claps her hands in a steady beat. They are all so light on their feet they make the steps too delicate, too thin, but they are determined. Anordis laughs and falls into step with them, clapping all the while. “You must ground your feet. Roll your hips and let the rest of your body follow.” They titter amongst each other, but don’t let the word “vulgar” pass their lips in Sindarin or Silvan. One of them made that mistake yesterday and… she’d heard that after her quiet display of anger they decided unanimously never to repeat it. _Good,_ she thinks, watching them fail horribly at rooting to the ground. _And yet we are people of the land,_ she shakes her head, arms crossed as the routine ended. The ladies all brushed the hair out of their eyes, panting and smiling over at her. Anordis nods to them.

“How did we do?” The previously offending healer—Losseth, now that she was no longer offending—asks. Anordis shrugs.

“Well enough I suppose, for Westerners,” She sighs, “But some more practice and I’ll whip you into shape for this…”

“Heritage Festival. You’ll enjoy it, we promise.”

“I do love celebrations,” she agrees. After so much conflict in the last two weeks, she counted the days until the cave burst into raucous laughter and song.  Faervel assured her that while it was of course not like the festivals of Kilmasa, Mirkwood’s celebrations were as fun and drunk as one would hope.

“You’ll have to be extravagant, as a guest of the realm,” Losseth glides to her side. Behind them the healers disperse, clapping beats out errantly as they leave, humming tunes from the South.

“I suppose I’ll have to enrapture them so they forget I was just recently their king’s prisoner,” Anordis says softly. It was only ten days since and The Elder was adamant about pulling her out of what she called  an “imminent descent,” if she stayed holed up in the healing quarters as she’d planned. In truth Anordis know only two ways to be; invisible, or the sun. And she is no longer afforded the first here; as it slips away from her, she has to take it.

“No one would breathe a word of it!” Losseth exclaims, red coloring her cheeks. Anordis pats her hand to silence her.

“Of course not, but I want it wiped from their minds as well.” They begin walking down one of Mirkwood palace’s many halls. By now Anordis knows her way to the Elder’s chambers through instinct alone. She simply walks until she finds herself at the door. “Amongst the people of Dale I am a warrior. They might think I perished in battle, but I fought for them. Here I must be beautiful to combat the terrible.” She remembers very clearly the political machinations of her grandfather’s court; this would be child’s play.

“You are also whispered of as a great warrior here,” Losseth offers, to Anordis’ mild surprise.

“How is that?”

“ _T_ _he battle your soldiers have returned from? I fought there, too. On **accident**_ ,” Losseth repeats the threat Anordis hissed at her on the third day, trying and failing to mimic her accent, and smiles, “ We simply asked the soldiers about it, who of course do not gossip.” There’s a devilish twinkle in Losseth’s eyes and Anordis grins as they ascend a staircase that should get her fairly near Faervel’s room.

“Of course they don’t.”

…

He is updated on her once a day by either Faervel or the single watcher he has set on her, whomever reaches him first. He keeps an eye on her from afar to ensure she’s better than before— _better than I’d made her_ —and goes about his responsibilities. So many duties, and yet they were still not enough to keep his mind from wandering to her, if she was purposely avoiding him, if she was easily making acquaintance, if she planned on staying much longer or only stayed thus to humor him. _But, why would she humor me?_

 _You don’t know what you did,_ she’d said. But he’d seen the dread on her face as he implored her to stay. His first thought had been that she was once imprisoned by orcs the way Lady Celebrian had been, and somehow remained this side of the sea. But her dread was angrier, hell-hot, even, than what anyone had described of Celebrian. And, this lady was a warrior. There was something else.

He would go on like this, supposing and projecting, until whatever task he was at somehow brought him back to the present. But then the tantalizing scent of her hair would waft unbidden under his nose, and pull him back. It was maddening.

Perhaps the slight obsession blossomed because she’s the most current event in his life. Perhaps it’s because he’d done the roaming-drunk-about-the-halls bit for three days straight over his son whilst she was in prison and just a thought, so his mind was freer. Or perhaps it was because he really, really enjoyed her when she was calm. Which he’d given her, then took it away, only to try and give it to her again. Thranduil doesn’t like the idea of being besotted, of being inundated by the mind’s affectionate object obsession, so he doesn’t think of it that way. She’s…new.

But the Heritage Jewels he’d brought back from the Dwarves’ War were new, and they didn’t leave him both a frightened mess and with a heat in his groin. He surely hadn’t felt _that_ in half an Age.

“How is she?” He asks Faervel in passing. She, who’d bound herself so quickly to Anordis, was resplendent in her victory. Thranduil was certain if he’d let her go off into Mirkwood, The Elder would never be sated again; she had a fierce loyalty to the Dark Lady that astounded him, as he’d never heard of this figure before. As it was, she answered his questions about her thoroughly, but in the last three days hadn’t been as verbose as usual. On this fourth day, she smiles a little when he asks the question.

“She’s dancing,” The Elder says. Thranduil sits back on his throne to try and imagine.

…

She bathes in the Elder’s rooms and walks the halls at night. Unlike in the towns she’d taken refuge in, Mirkwood did not necessarily sleep; night was still, but she met more people on her walks in the night that in any human settlement. It reminds her of home. She walks while she braids her hair, humming to herself to ward off the nightmares that come for her. She’s not even a week out of the dungeons, so they come and leave her so cold her teeth ache. Eventually it will become routine and long after that, they will fade; she remembers this song and dance of compromising with her demons. The walking helps.

Avoiding Thrandui; is not very difficult. She could most likely spend the remainder of her stay here without seeing him again through pure accident, though it’s unlikely he will abstain from the coming celebration. Regardless, sticking to the side halls suits her, keeping her acquaintances to the healing ladies and Faervel suits her; she spends her free time walking and waiting. She’d asked after her father. The Elder doesn’t know the name Calaeron, but she’s sent after it in Rivendell and Lothlorien. A Lord Celeborn knew a Calaeron a thousand years ago, but has not heard of him since then. Lord Elrond’s lands are beyond the mountains: She won’t be hearing back from him for some time. So she waits.

Anordis hums a lullaby as she walks the halls, and nearly trips over a small creature that tries to dart between her legs.

“Oh!” She falls to her knees, nearly crushing the little thing now paralyzed with fear. It shakes terribly when she scoops it up and peers into its face.

Some kind of deer, all long legs and a too big head, blinks round eyes at her. She touches their noses together and feels her heart flutter.

“Hello little one,” she says in Kilmasi. “I wasn’t trying to flatten you.” It stops shaking for a moment at the sound of her voice, but starts back up when she quiets. The little thing has an auburn pelt spattered with white markings and peculiar grey eyes and the pinkest tongue she’s ever seen as it darts out to lick her. It must like wine, because it licks the sides of her mouth until she pulls away. Repositioning herself, she sits cross-legged on the ground and sits the deer in her lap, stroking its pelt as it watches her. “How did you find your way into this miserable place?” she muses, “A deer belongs among the trees, not in some sad king’s cave. Where is your mother?” The deer can’t possibly know Kilmasi, but it responds to the language by nibbling at her fingers after every question and eventually stretching out in Anordis’ lap to fall directly asleep. But the night is young and she has walking to do, so she removes the black sash from her waist and wraps the little deer in it, cradling it in her arms as she continues on her path. It’s a welcome weight in her arms, warm and pulsing and so cute. She wonders if there’s more, and if she could convince someone to give her one. She hasn’t had a pet in a few hundred years.

“If you were mine, I’d name you _teti_ for the amber stone, and you wouldn’t even tremble at the grumpiest of mumakil or the fattest giants. I’d make sure you were faster than the wargs. The wargs are nice, but predators by nature. They can’t help—“

“At this rate you’ll ruin the elk for Sindarin, my lady,” Thranduil’s voice is soft and base as he comes down an adjacent hall. Anordis stiffens before dipping a curtsey. The baby elk shakes its head as he speaks, waking immediately and reaching up to lick Anordis’ chin. It turns its doe eyes onto Thranduil, who watches it with the ghost of a scowl and half-lidded eyes.

“Hmm. Is this your father?” She wonders. “What is an elk?” She asks Thranduil in Sindarin. “Like a deer?”

“But stronger, and with grander antlers.”

“Ah. And this little one is yours.” The king nods.

“He is. I was just looking for him, he’s escaped his pen.” Anordis raises her eyebrows. The king is clad in black pants and a white tunic without all of his usual accoutrements, and the shirt’s a bit wrinkled. His face is bleary, his hair tousled; It lends him a vulnerability she wishes he’d take to heart for his own sake, with that dark creature running about. She’s seen it scaling walls and keeping well away from anything living which was how a safe amalgamation should behave, but it got her wondering what had made it so aggressive that day. The king had been happy, sure, but unless that was the only time he’d ever been happy, it didn’t make sense.

 Thranduil watches her almost timidly and she’s hesitant in granting him any acceptance on principle. She’d not been free five days. Still, his sleepy gaze is endearing to say the least.

“You were Dreaming,” she says, biting back a smile (she does _not_ want to smile at him) “And you rose to search for your baby deer. Unfortunately king, that is adorable.” She nuzzles the deer and steps close to Thranduil. “Here.” He looks down at the elk in amusement and runs tapered fingers over its swaddled body, looking at her as if to say, _and this is not?_ She presses the bundle against him.

“I am glad to hear that you’re getting along better here.” He says aloud, taking the elk from her. She steps away from him, graceful and aloof. “I hear you’ve been dancing. Is it a Kilmasi step?”

“A few of them. But never fear, king. You’ll see it soon enough.” A beat passes between them, and she frowns. “At your Heritage festival. I’ve taught some of your healers, and we’ll perform it.” He nods, adjusting the elk away from his shirt as it begins chewing at it and Anordis can’t help but chuckle. Thranduil tries a small smile. She folds her arms.

“I am sorry.” He says quietly, and lets those words hang in the air before he continues. “I’ve also heard of your nightmares. Before, you said that I didn’t know what I’d done, but I think I have. I would wish that only on my worst enemy, which you are not.” She doesn’t say anything, only waits for him to either continue or leave, and he takes his opportunity. “I’d like to be your friend.”

_I wish, I wish._

“Do you often make friends out of past prisoners?” The edge to her voice makes him visibly cringe. Anordis lets him squirm because he might not have known what he did but she had to suffer for it. Because she’d wanted to help him. But his recovery is quick, and he gives her a soft look before the beginnings of the once-attempted smile cut mischievous angles into his face. She blinks. _What?_

“I befriend my equals and my betters.” Another moment. Then he inclines his head, and turns to go. She flounders for a response.

“Goodbye, Teti,” is all she can come up with.

“How did you call him?” He turns back to her, and the elk peeks out of his arms. Anordis hears herself say, “Teti,” but it’s somehow beyond her.  

“Teti,” he repeats. “Thranduil Oropherion, aback the war-elk Teti. Considerable.” His blue eyes catch hers for a moment before he turns back down the hallway he’d appeared from, and Anordis stares at the spot in which he stood, shifting from one foot to the other. Suddenly she is alight with electricity, buzzing and bright and…

_What?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Party outfit planning! General angst! Anordis and Thranduil talk words! And...touch? A little. Not really. But kinda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So truth is, I've been hording this chapter for like, a while. I didn't know if it worked, if my pacing was off or not, if it was too much... but honestly, it's been a month, and some other re-writes just weren't working. If this is what they want to do (or what The Elder/Faervel wants them to do, depending on your view) then so be it.
> 
> Shout out to the sweet guest whose kind comment kicked my butt into gear. I hope you're not disappointed.
> 
> (Comments/critique are love)

In Kilmasa she’d let herself fall into her sister’s steps, never far behind but always behind. She didn’t want anything more than what was due her; if that had been a crown, so be it. If it was the place on her sister’s right side, then she would glide through her many years content. Of many talents, she is the virtuoso of most kinds of music; the dark heaviness of spirit-blighting, the sharp notes of swordplay, poison though that had been out of sheer curiosity when she spent time in amongst the humans of Khand. Hearts and minds were closed to her out of principle. Archery took the fun out of the fight. And then there was actual music; she could play harp or flute or drum as well as any. There is no need to reach because she accomplishes what she wants and what she wants falls short of any tendency towards ambition.

But then Sauron takes that bliss away from her, bit by bit, laughing in her face as they make her mother fade and kill her father outright (there is a fire in their eyes unbridled when they do this and she understands a particular hate they have for her father’s people). She says Morgoth like a prayer and Sauron like _the_ prayer. Only after she is orphaned and her people ruined does she stretch her arms to reach.

It is leagues of scorched earth and dead orcs and Men before they fell her and her sister. They call her many curses and blindfold her for years.

The next time she sees the light, it washes grey over a flat countryside. The air is different from Kilmasa, from the burning plains, even from the rare breeze that greeted her in the Rhuni dungeons.  She tries to return to Rhun (this is silly, but she's cannot leave her other half) and finds herself blocked by familiar magic. _Olerydeth._ She doesn’t know if her sister is dead or turned against her but Olerydeth had always been the more powerful of the two; She’d been the one who reached before they were forced to. And it was Olerydeth's magic that denied her.

It’s never been lost on Anordis that her final punishment is walking in light. She can see everything that will never be hers. In her heart she knows finding her father’s house is a hollow dream, but she has nothing else. She is sundered from her sister, a fallen queen, broken daughter, pariah in her own mind; the dream falls through her fingers like water. Mirkwood is not light, per se, but it does glow. Foreign place with foreign king and a slippery tongue. And yet, she can be safe here. 

Thranduil-- his words, his gaze, the lines of his shoulders, his face-- slips in and out of her mind like a specter. She wants to harden her heart against him. He is a fickle man, content to toss her away one moment and hint at friendship the next. He has eyes that must kill the young elven women of his kingdom so sweetly; she is sure that when he is willing, he’s dangerous.

She’s starved for looks that soothe rather than those that fear or pity. She cries out from her dreaming for them. But she cannot accept just anything; she keeps close to the Elder because she is genuine, the healers because they are earnest and honest. He is king, and she knows kings the way she knows a sea-top storm; her kingdom was on the coast.

But they implore her to be caught up in the celebrations, and she wants to be swept away. If she must walk in strange light, she would bask in it until it became familiar.

 She’s thrown parties and had parties thrown for her, so the rush in the two or so days before Mirkwood’s Heritage festival are both chaotic and enjoyable. Barrels of wine move from cellar to the main floor, interesting smells from what turns out to be _multiple_ kitchens permeate the air and surprisingly make Anordis’ mouth water. She watches as the starlit cave slowly becomes brighter and a tad more colorful, though she’s found these elves only don whiter outfits the more celebratory they become. And, they prefer silver. Faervel, who is simply a natural fusser, throws out different suggestions for Anordis’ gown every few minutes and has trouble deciding between velvet or silk for either of their outfits, because while she personally loves velvet she knows Iphtiri’s women were the ladies of Silk and Gold and—

“Faervel, please.” Anordis laughs, tossing a small bolt of ribbon in the air. She let herself feel as light and soft as a welcome breeze. “You’ve already told the seamstress silk.” Together they’d sketched up a few things in their favorite Kilmasi styles, along with some of the loose pants and tunics of her people so she wouldn’t have to wear gowns or the fitted leggings, neither of which she likes, all the time.

“I just want you to be extravagant,” the Elder says, catching the ribbon out of the air playfully before dropping it back to her. Anordis smiles, pressing a hand to her cheek.

“You’ve been immeasurably kind to me, Faervel. That you are here and I am here is some kind of miracle.”

“One that it seems like you needed. You should thank Mithrandir next you see him.” Anordis nods. Olorin had to have known Faervel was in Mirkwood, and the pair of them had even crossed paths in Kilmasa all those years ago. He was still… _Olorin_ , but in this, he had been able to conjure some kind of good.

“Yes but if I thank him, he might think we’re settled. We aren’t.”

“Anordis—“

“He knew more than he told, Elder _._ He should have made my grandfather listen, made my mother listen. He could have, he’s a Wizard for Eru’s sake! But he didn’t.” _And now everyone’s gone._ She presses the spool to her forehead and sighs. She knows it wasn’t wholly Olorin’s fault. Kilmasa’s positioning and the turning of the Wargs, along with an onslaught of dark magic made it nearly impossible for her kingdom to come out victorious. It makes her sick to imagine how Kilmasa looked now, so she pushes the image away.

“Anordis.”

“Silk will be beautiful with the jewels you’ve chosen,” Anordis tosses the ribbon to her. “But don’t you think the colors I picked will be too much for your people? It might overwhelm them.” Faervel wraps some ribbon around her finger and gives a devilish grin.

“Is that not the point?”

 

Later, after Faervel is done being the Elder for the day, they sit on the inner balcony.

“I heard you met a certain baby elk the other night,” she says, and Anordis starts.  

“I—“

“Teti is an adorable name, but should a war-elk be adorable?” She muses, grinning as Anordis blushes. “He is trying to apologize.”

“I see that.” She’s looking over the balcony and misses Faervel’s expression. “But he’s afraid of me. I saw it in his eyes that day.”

“Darling, I’d be afraid of you too if you told me a monster sat easy on my shoulder.”

“Enough to throw me in prison?”

“No. It’s understandable to deny him for this. But _ka-kitri_ , I think you should…explain to him.” Anordis gives her a blank stare and she shrugs. “Explain to him what the dungeon means to you.” Immediately Anordis protests, but she’s deliberating with herself in her head.

_That would help you to understand each other._

_Need we understand each other for me to remain here?_

_You want to be understood. I want to be understood._

_But he…_

“He must ask it of me.” Kimani eventually says, to Faervel’s evident dismay.

“He has asked it of you for days, my lady. I think you know that he has.”

_How does this woman know you better than you?_

_Because she’s seen more of me than I have in years._

“Oh, look,” Faervel points below. There he is, walking that stately line, nothing but moonlight. “No time like the present, as they say.” Anordis feels her chest tighten. She wants nothing more than to stand by her conviction that he should come to her and ask explicitly. She owed him nothing. _But you want him to know._ The information would weigh on him. He was so apologetic, it might even hurt him. On one older and more vicious hand, this pleases her. On the other, well.

Anordis stands up. “We are immortal,” she says in way of goodbye to the Elder, who smiles triumphantly, “we do not use that phrase.”

“Good luck, my lady.”

Anordis grabs a shawl from the seat she’d commandeered in the large room, goes to wrap it around her, and then drops it on the bed. She cannot shield herself. If she will tell, she will tell it true.

**…**

Thranduil has the urge to go running through the trees, to spend the night in the forest. Count stars, or whatever it is that should make him feel better. Without Legolas, with this woman walking about and making him feel idiotic and villainous and _wanting_ … Thranduil folds his arms tightly against his chest. He needed something. Unfortunately a king running alone through the woods would not do, and his council were all old trees rooted straight.

He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t hear her until she speaks.

“Have you even been to Rhun, king?” Anordis falls in beside him as he walks the halls after council meetings. Thranduil runs his kingdom as well as Cirdan runs the westbound ships, as well as the Valar crafted the trees, even. Everything was smooth and in-place and in a steady beat, like his heartbeat. As his heartbeat, if one asks the Elder, but Thranduil is not so poetic. He inclines his head to Anordis.

“I have not, my lady.” He is delighted to see her, but is immediately wary; Rhun, no matter who spoke of it, was rarely a pleasant topic

She’s dressed in plain brown leggings and a fitted tunic to her knees. Her hips, full and heavy for an elf, swing wide as she keeps pace with his long strides, and he makes a point to look ahead.

 “Good for you. It’s a painfully beautiful place. The Men there did so well to respect the earth. The trees used to sing.” She hesitates, then takes the edge of his robe and tugs him lightly so that he follows her, and he does, curious because her talking to him was both wonderful and out of sorts _. I don’t really like you_ , she’d said, and the Elder had only relayed that sentiment so many times before Thranduil stopped asking.

“Then I’m sad to not have had the chance before it fell.”

“Oh, you mistake me. I have only ever seen Rhun in the aftermath of its taking. Their royal palace is breathtaking, and heartbreaking when you realize just who, now, lives there.”

“Servants of Morgoth.” She shakes her head.

“No one.” She’s ahead of him now, slowing their pace, and glances back at him over her shoulder. She wears her hair in a number of cloudlike twisted pieces instead of loose, the tips of them grazing the full curve of her rump. “No one lives there. Everybody in the Great Rhuni Palace is a shell of their former selves, all of the things we both love and hate in Men pulled out and discarded. There is no love nor hate, nor guilt, not do they fear death. And yet the shells of them are still beautiful, and savage,” By now he knows where, in roundabout fashion, she’s taking him. Before long he motions for the guards to open his study doors when they hesitate at the once-prisoner, now leading their king.

“Lovely and hollow.” He murmurs, and she nods, pulling at a lock of her hair.

“Lovely and hollow.  And those lovely, hollow, Rhuni soldiers captured my sister and I. First they taunted us, then, they tormented us. Then they separated us because twins are stronger together, no?” She asks, declining when he offers her wine. Thranduil stands at one end of his round table, and she stands a short way from the other end. The study almost seems to swallow her, she looks so small.

They stood like this when she was brought for questioning, but everything from his view is much softer now, much more delicate. She’s brought him here because of it, he supposes, as she looks around the room as though for the first time. He thinks, in this context, she likes it.

Or it reminds her of something long past, the something she is telling him about now.

“And then?” He prods, though he’s not sure he wants to know. She sighs.

“I don’t know how long a time I spent in the dungeons. I couldn’t count the days because they blindfolded me and put me beneath the ground. I tried to listen for the sunrise, you know how it whistles the lightest whistle you’ve ever heard, but their dungeons are deep. They killed people very loudly sometimes, but I never heard my sister’s voice. Though I doubt they kept her in the ground; the dungeons in the sky are supposedly far more frightening.”

“Eru,” He breathes, “and I only brought back these memories. This darkness.” Anordis frowns, and continues.

“It was all for a reason. It was for Kilmasa. And Harad. And Khand. My sister and I brought together the last of the South’s good soldiers, and wreaked havoc on their lands. We killed everything in our path. And when those hollow soldiers ambushed us in the Bright Marshes, they _laughed. Darkling elves will do nicely_ ,” she deepens her voice to mimic the soldiers. “And they laughed all the way through their gates, laughed until we were imprisoned. For years, all I knew was their laughter and the blindfold and the fact that I was in a dungeon for a _reason_. I had tried my best to avenge the people in the south, my beautiful people. So I was there for a reason, I was there because I was Shadow, scourge of their people. But then time—knowing that time passed and never really knowing how much—broke me. I was broken. And when they let me out and I finally saw the light of day again, I swore to never be imprisoned by anyone for anything. Ever. ”

“And I…” Thrandui feels something tightening his body like a bow. She smiles sadly.

“You locked me up because you didn’t like what I’d told you about yourself. You didn’t like that I knew. That someone you didn’t know could know anything substantial about you. This is common among kings.” He flinches at the sharpness of her words, but does not deny them.

“If you swore, then why did you come so quietly?”

“Because this is the first time, in ten years at least, that I’ve been around my kin. I didn’t want to kill your people unless I had to,” She won’t look at him when she says this, but he feels that past threat all the same. It dissolves into nothing as soon as it hits. “And your dungeons are…amenable. I thought I could bear it.”

“But you cannot.” He walks slowly towards her and she shrugs, eyes downcast. “My lady.” Nothing. Thranduil hesitates a moment, then reaches out to tilt her chin up with his finger. Her golden eyes are soft as they flit to him, but she sets her jaw. It seems she was always pulling between two feelings. _No,_ he thinks, _she cannot bear it._

“I fought the great dragons of the north,” he says softly, grunting as he lets the glamour of his face fall away. The scar takes his left eye and the whole of his cheek, webbing skin and revealing teeth. She watches it grow, trailing its progress with those steady eyes. “And I won. They were majestic. And I was young, new to kingship and fresh out of the War of the Last Alliance, where my father died.  When I returned to Mirkwood, we had to push the dragons back to their lands. They’d gotten excited.”

“That is the way of dragons,” She says quietly. He nods, pointing to his scar.

“As is this. I lost many kin to the foolishness of that endeavor. I lost my wife. She did not die then,” He says when she starts, “But it was the beginning of her distance from me. I suppose much of the….thing you see about me is that.” She nods, and the bit of compassion she gives softens her about the mouth.

“And as a new king you were given no time to heal.”

“New king, new father…the hundred years after are like a blur,” he admits. “But my son kept me steady. He keeps me steady still.”

“And where is he?”

“He is in the north. Or should be by now. He didn’t want to come home.” Anordis waits for more but he’s already told her more than anyone but Faervel knew. “I don’t tell you this for you to pity me, only to give as you have given. And to apologize for not taking your words in the garden as the gift they were meant to be.”

They were close, the space between them warm and buzzing with energy. She smells more of lemon today than flowers, her skin sheening with some kind of oil. Eru, he has the overwhelming urge to _touch her_ , but stills his hands at his sides; He’d already ventured in lifting her chin, did not want to break whatever small thing they had built here.

 But then she surprises him by patting his chest with three little taps before settling her hand there. She must be able to feel how lit he is, it must buzz through her, she must know--

“Thank you.” She smiles. “I suppose Olorin wouldn’t leave me with a horrible elf, would he?” He hopes it’s rhetorical because he can’t speak. Because her hand is so gentle against him. So, he lays his hand over hers; she’s incredibly warm. Anordis blinks, looks at their hands for a moment. Then looks back at him.

“You were frightened by many things that day in the garden, king.” She slips her hand from his and runs it along his burned face so he can do nothing but shudder. “You don’t do very well with it. Fear.”

“I am not often afraid.” He can’t help but lean into her touch until she pulls away, regarding him openly, eyes trailing from his crown to his feet. It’s not lascivious in the least. In fact, it’s almost calculating. And yet he feels fire mark him wherever she looks.

“You may want to practice so that the day real fear comes, you can face it easier. Aback Teti, perhaps, or in the mirror.” She curtseys to him. “I am glad we had this talk.” Anordis leaves Thranduil wordless and with the ghost of her touch still warm on his face.

He raises his own hand to it, and exhales for what feels like the first time in ages.


End file.
